


You Walk With Me

by aliceybalicey



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Big ol' whump, Davenport is based off my experience with Alzheimer's patients, Lucretia's a hot mess, post Stolen Century
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23631541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliceybalicey/pseuds/aliceybalicey
Summary: In the aftermath of her deed, Lucretia takes care of Davenport. They both try to find some sense of normalcy.A series of very short drabbles looking into life after the ship, before the Bureau.
Relationships: Davenport & The Director | Lucretia
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't get this thought out of my head. I'm a CNA at a nursing home, and I have a lot of experience with Alzheimer's patients, and it reminded me so much of Davenport that I had to write this.

Lucretia finds a two bedroom apartment for her and Davenport in Neverwinter. The first night there, she fixes Davenport a simple supper, and locks herself in her bedroom.   
Davenport eats the stew she prepared for him, and washes his dish. He sets it, along with his cup and spoon, on the table, and stands there as he tries to figure out what to do with himself through the static. It’s hard to think of what he should do, what he would do, if he knew who he- ~~who he~~ \- 

The door to his bedroom is open, but Davenport waits outside Lucretia’s room, needing instruction and guidance. He tries the door handle once. Locked. There is a strangled sob from the other side. He paces outside of her door until his legs are tired, and he stops, standing with his back to the opposite wall of the hallway. 

  
Hours later, when Lucretia opens her door, she nearly kicks the man in the side from where he had fallen asleep, curled in a ball on the floor against the doorframe. Lucretia never locks her door again.

* * *

They fall into a routine, with Lucretia’s guidance. Davenport wakes up early and showers. He dresses in the outfit that Lucretia chose for him the night before and brushes his teeth. He goes into the kitchen and puts the already prepared bread in the toaster, and flips the switch for the water kettle. The pour-over for coffee is already prepared, grounds in the filter and a mug beside.   
They had learned early on that doing the small things was enough for Davenport. He could learn to turn a knob, pour water, push down toast. Everything else had to be prepared ahead of time, and Lucretia did so, diligently.   
He would sit at the table and drink his coffee and eat his toast, and then he would wash his dishes. And then he would sit, because what else was there to do? The apartment was basically bare bones, aside from the few belongings that Lucretia had been able to keep, that didn’t fill Davenport’s head with painful, panicked static. And making decisions, he knew, was not his forte.

Lucretia came out of her room a few hours later every time, dead in the eyes, pouring herself a cup of coffee. The first few days she barely even noticed that the gnome wasn't doing anything. On the third day, her vacant eyes sharpened to look at him. "How long have you been awake?" She asked over her coffee, voice rasping.  
Davenport considered, and shrugged. "Davenport."   
Lucretia's eyes flicked between him, sitting at the table with nothing in front of him, to his clean and dry mug and plate on the countertop.   
"We should get you some things," She murmured after a moment, taking a sip of too-hot black coffee. "I'll...figure it out. I promise."

  
A week later, Davenport’s room had things for him to do. Lucretia had walked him around town and bought him anything and everything that caught his eye. It was strangely endearing to see him excited, something that her Captain never let out. At the most, Captain Drew Davenport was mildly relaxed with a glass of wine in his hand, but still professional. This Davenport was like a child, grabbing up books and colored pencils and things Lucretia had never thought he would like, but she bought them, and she choked on her bittersweet smile when she looked down to see him beaming, swinging the bags as they walked. It was painful to see him this way, but the excited gleam in his eye was the most emotion she had seen out of him yet.   
Davenport’s room was the master bedroom. Lucretia and Fisher shared the smaller second bedroom. The door was always closed, but never locked. Davenport helped Lucretia push his bed to the corner of his room, creating space for the small table and chairs that Lucretia had procured for him. Before long, they had a small art table set up, his colored pencils all tip-up in a mug sitting on top of a stack of paper. A few books that he had chosen - Lucretia wasn’t sure how much he actually retained of reading and writing, but she was fairly certain all the books had pictures, so she didn’t prevent him from taking them - were in a small bookshelf, along with a few colorful fidgeting gadgets that he had chosen. Davenport was delighted at the look of it, by the way he clasped his hands together and rambled his name over and over. 

When Lucretia came out of her room the next morning, eyes tired from a night of no sleep, Davenport wasn’t at the kitchen table. His mug and plate were clean and set on the counter. She put them away and went to his bedroom door, and watched him color for a few minutes before leaving him to his devices. If he needed her, he would call. 

* * *

On their next outing into their neighborhood, Davenport snatched up a clear plastic tube with glow-in-the-dark stars. Big blue eyes focused on Lucretia as he held it tightly to his chest, and with a sigh she nodded, holding out her hand to take it to the register.   
Davenport spent that entire afternoon jumping on his bed, sticking stars on the walls and ceiling wherever he could touch. That night, when he laid in bed, he had an outburst of longing that was gone as soon as it had arrived. He rolled over, and went to sleep to the sound of static. 


	2. Chapter 2

Here are the things Davenport knows:   
Lucretia is his family.   
Lucretia takes care of him.   
Lucretia is heartbreakingly sad.   
He hates to see the way her face twists at even the smallest thing. He likes to make her smile, but more often than not his attempts end up with her quietly excusing herself to the bathroom. He can hear her crying through the door, and it frustrates him. Somewhere inside, he knows that she is too young to be this upset.   
Some mornings, he creeps up to her bedside, patting her gently awake.   
“Davenport?” He asks, once her eyes are open and focused. He offers out a steaming mug, and that brings a smile to her face. The satisfaction he feels when she takes it is more than enough to have him do it again, and again.   
He drew her a picture, once, only to have her face crumble when she thought he wasn’t looking. It hurt him. He threw the picture away the next moment he got; he didn’t want anything he did to make her cry like that.   
The next morning, when Davenport padded into the kitchen, the picture was out of the trash; wrinkled from where he had balled it up, but put on the refrigerator. The image of a clumsily made Davenport and Lucretia smiling at him from the paper made him smile back, and he swung his feet under the chair as he drank his coffee. 

* * *

  
There were days when Lucretia couldn’t get out of bed, and he held her hand while she cried into her pillow. Those were the days that worried him. She wouldn’t take coffee, or toast, and he would open his mouth to ask _what do I do? How do I help?_  
“Davenport.”   
She would only cry harder.   
Eventually, Lucretia would get out of bed, murmuring something about being selfish, and she would make him food. He used to eat without a care, but it didn’t take long for him to realize that she wasn’t touching her food. 

  
One thing that hadn’t changed about Davenport was that he was stubborn. 

  
On one of those days, when Lucretia was sitting across from him with her head in her hands, Davenport folded his arms across his chest. The food in front of him looked good, if not a bit simple, but despite the way his nose twitched eagerly at the smell he refused to even touch the fork. It took a few minutes for Lucretia to notice. “Eat your food, Davenport,” She said quietly. The gnome raised an eyebrow at her.   
“Davenport,” He said pointedly, and she stared at him. The confusion on her face made him even more frustrated, and he huffed, gesturing at her and her own food. “Dav-D-Davenport, _Daven_ , Davenport,” He snapped, and her confusion turned to bewilderment.   
Then, something she hadn’t shown yet. Relief.   
“You’re still in there somewhere,” She managed to laugh, and the sentence didn’t make sense to Davenport, but she had begun to eat, and that was enough to satisfy him. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for non-descriptive and unintentional self harm in the beginning.

Sometimes, the apartment is too quiet. Davenport tries to pretend like the static isn’t buzzing on the edges of his senses in the stillness of the place, especially when Lucretia is out. He runs his fingers along the rim of his coffee cup those mornings and pretends like the pad of his thumb isn’t tingling with static.   
He should be doing something, he notes vaguely, and even that thought is fuzzy and blurred. 

When Lucretia is gone, it’s up to him to fill the quiet. Some days he runs the sink for the entire day, letting the noise of rushing water mimic the static in his head. Other days that isn’t enough and he turns on the tub, sitting beside it, letting the wet roar envelop his ears.   
He puts soap in the water and watches it sud up. He dips his hand in; the water is too hot. He leaves his hand in anyways. The heat of the water replaces the tingling in a way that is painful, but far better than the alternative, than the nothingness that the static provides. 

  
When Lucretia gets back that night, his hand is red and the skin is tight across his palm. She frowns at him, uncertain of how to proceed, and casts a healing spell. Davenport almost cries. The static is back, buzzing in his fingertips. 

* * *

Lucretia is cleaning one day. Davenport helps where he can, using a wet rag to wipe along the baseboards, the tables, wherever he could reach. Lucretia mops the floor with soapy water that quickly becomes murky, and the smell of the chemical cleaners fills the air.   
She opens a window, and birdsong drifts through on the breeze.   
Davenport pauses to listen to it, to go to the window and try to find which bird is singing. Lucretia watches him for a moment, sadness drawn in the lines of her face, but she gets back to work. Davenport is delighted that he can focus on the notes of the birdsong; a few notes, a trill, a simple melody.   
He tries to mimic it, and Lucretia freezes. Then, she crumples, slumping in a chair.   
At first, he thinks he’s done something wrong. He rushes to her, and she places a hand on his cheek, and he babbles his equivolent of apologies as he tries to soothe her. She shakes her head, offering him a wobbly smile.   
“It’s okay,” She said, straightening up in the chair. The bird sings again, and Davenport stays silent.   
“You - you used to sing a lot,” She said after a moment, and Davenport doesn’t understand what that means, but he’s willing to accept it for her sake. “I’m sure you miss music.”  
“Davenport,” He said, willing to do anything to make her smile again. 

  
The next day, once the cleaning is done, they go out. Lucretia picks up a box with a dial in the back. When they get back to the apartment, and all the groceries are put away, she takes it out and shows him how to twist the dial in the back, to make it make noise. He can’t help the laughter that the music pulls from him, delighted, and Lucretia gives him her own soft chuckle as a gift. 

When Lucretia leaves, the first thing Davenport does is grab that box from the counter and twist the dial. The music plays until the dial slows to a stop, and Davenport rushes to turn it again, to start it over. He learns the song by heart. He tries to sing it. The notes don’t come out perfectly, he knows, but he likes to sing along.   
Lucretia comes home early one day, and Davenport stops singing. He doesn’t want to see her upset again. Instead, she smiles softly at him as the music fades away, and she goes to turn the dial herself, and hums along to the music to encourage him.   
From that moment on, Davenport sings whenever he gets the chance. Nonsense melodies, mostly, but every once in a while he’ll sing something that makes Lucretia’s face twist for only a moment before she schools her expression into a pleasant mask. He hates that. 

* * *

One day, he is singing in his room, and through the wall, something sings back.   
It isn’t a bird. He knows that. It’s far too deep, has too much resonance. Not a bird. Davenport leaves his colors at the table and sings the melody again, and hears another response.   
It’s coming from Lucretia’s room. The door isn’t locked, the way it’s never locked, although he’s never felt a need to go in until now. 

  
He does. 

  
The large tank in the corner is well-lit, but for the life of him he can’t figure out what’s inside. It’s that same static, overtaking almost everything in the room, but he gets that same melody out again, and the fuzzy blur in the tank repeats it back at him.   
Davenport decides that he likes the fuzzy blur, no matter how hard it gets to look at it. He sits down and sings another melody, which the blur repeats, and he finds that these duets are a good way of entertaining himself. 

  
Lucretia panics when she finds him sitting in her room, on the floor in front of Fisher’s tank, and, like always, he scrambles to her, scared that he had done something wrong. She knows that nothing happened, but she ushers him out anyways, much to his confusion.   
She closes the door firmly behind her and reaches for him. He hugs her.   
“You can’t do that,” She murmurs, and he hates it. Why can’t he? He doesn’t understand. “I’m sorry, ~~Captain~~ , but you can’t. I - I wish you could.”

The rest of his duets with the blur are through the wall. Davenport misses it, but he doesn’t want to see the fear in Lucretia’s face anymore, so he stays away, and Lucretia’s door stays closed. 


	4. Chapter 4

Davenport wants to do something nice for Lucretia. He just isn't sure of what. Coming up with plans, after all, isn't where his skills lie.   
After a few days of deliberation, he plans out his gift.

* * *

Davenport wakes up in the morning, showers, dresses, and goes to the kitchen. He makes himself coffee and toast and sits at the kitchen table to eat. This is what he does every day. Their routine has been locked into his head longer than anything else has. All other thoughts are fleeting - their melody of living is solid. Because of this, Davenport knows that he has approximately two hours before Lucretia begins to stir on the other side of her door. 

Davenport washes his dishes, and begins to work. 

Reading doesn't work well for him anymore. Sometimes he can make out a word or two, here and there, but it's mostly jumbled static on paper. He doesn't mind this. What he focuses on are the pictures in the cookbook that Lucretia had provided for him. He wasn't sure if she had bought it, or if she had made it especially for his purposes, but the book is primarily pictures, hieroglyphs to help him figure out the recipe. A picture of pancakes is on the top of the paper. This is what he wants. 

Two cups of flour. A fourth cup of sugar. A pinch of salt. One egg, some milk. There is a picture of what the stovetop knob needs to look like to get it at the proper heat. A picture of the right pan to use - and then it's all up to Davenport.   
  


The first few pancakes are gummy, and chewy, and burnt. Smoke billows up from the third pancake as he dumps it into the trashcan and curses under his breath. "Davenport." He turns down the heat.   
The next few are...better. He isn't very good at flipping them, and some are slightly mashed, but he manages to get four or five on a plate as the coffeepot starts to fill. The smell of pancakes is wafting in the air when he hears Lucretia start to shuffle and he beams. He sets the table; Cup, fork, knife, spoon. Plate. He fills a mug with hot coffee and sets it carefully next to the cup, which he fills with orange juice, and waits. 

When Lucretia opens the door, Davenport's face falls. She's going out. She has her jacket on, her bag slung over her shoulder, her graying hair tied back into a tight bun. She's leaving him again. Maybe for a few days this time. It wasn't unusual for her to be gone overnight, especially now that Davenport has a routine down, but he had only hoped she would stay today. For just a while. 

Lucretia stares blankly at the table, at the set place there, before her own face crumples. "I have to go," She says, and holds out an arm. He comes to her. She kisses his forehead and holds him closely. "Thank you, but I have to go."   
  
She is gone. 

Davenport dumps the dishes in the sink and leaves them for later. The place setting stays where it is; maybe she'll come back before too long, Davenport reasons with himself. Maybe she'll still be able to have the gift. 

The pancakes get moldy, and the coffee grows stale.

* * *

When Lucretia returns, she is different. Her hood is up so Davenport can't see her face. He hears her, first - he is in his room, watching his stars and brushing fingers over one of his drawing books, when he hears the sound of the lock jiggling and the door opening. He freezes, unsure, and then hears her familiar footsteps. He vaults off the bed and flings his door open - and stops. 

She is stiff. She is crying. He can't see it, but he can hear it. Her posture is hunched and defeated, and her hands are stained red. 

"Davenport!" The gnome is all concern, rushing towards her, reaching for her, but she pulls back. 

"I can't." 

Her stride into her bedroom is unbroken by the sight of dirty dishes in the sink, or moldy, sticky pancakes still where she had left them. She does not blink at the layer of dust on the floor, on the chairs. She does not notice the way Davenport stands, broken, confused, and hurt, unsure of his place in the universe. She goes into her room, shuts her door, and faces gray hair in the mirror. Wrinkles, in the mirror. No color to her, in the mirror. The red of her robe is now a muted gray. The bright colors of Fisher in his tank are nothing to her now. 

She sobs. 

Davenport does, too. 


End file.
